Jaklewicz: Chowing down and chewing the fat at Mickey D's

Years ago, I took my dad to Cooperstown in upstate New York to tour the Baseball Hall of Fame and celebrate the induction of Red Sox great Carl Yastrzemski. My dad, though raised in New York, was a huge Red Sox fan.

(Man, I'm glad I don't have to type in his name more often ...)

After a long day of viewing the exhibits, taking in the exhibition game and witnessing the induction of ... Yaz ... and Johnny Bench, we returned to the bed-and-breakfast at which we were staying. We enjoyed the cool of the evening with cooler drinks on a large porch while talking with other guests. We waved to and spoke to folks who passed by the house shaded by the leafy canopies of trees.

The proprietors sat with us. Some folks passing by they knew and addressed by name. To others, mostly in town for the inductions, the owners called out, "How're y'all doin'?"

Obviously, they didn't say "y'all." This was New York state.

If it sounds idyllic, it was. Small-town America, the way it used to be. Moving slowly. Neighbors knowing neighbors. Relaxing at day's end, and not with an electronic device anywhere in sight.

This was, after all, way back in 1989.

Flash to Abilene, just a few week ago.

I stopped for lunch at the new McDonald's on North First Street, mainly to taste the new Fish McBites.

I chose to sit on a stool at a counter, where three other diners were enjoying lunch and/or their smartphones.

A man across from me to my right started the conversation.

It was, of course, about my beard, that he has grown one once but his wife had interrupted its progress. I told him my wife was not so cool with mine, either.

That launched us into conversation.

Imagine, two strangers not in any particular hurry, just ... talking. Here is what I found out about my lunch buddy. Although a journalist is trained to ask questions and get information, this was not a Q-and-A.

Just two guys talking.

He was in the Air Force for 22 years.

Couldn't grow a beard then. But has grown out his hair an inch or two more than it is now.

He works at the French Robertson Unit.

He was having lunch at Mickey D's because he had a break from a class being ahead across the street in the Chase building.

He was from Houston.

He has two kids still at home, one recently graduated from Sam Houston State. Son's looking for job but finding that tough. Needs experience, they tell him. Give me that experience, he tells them.

Dyess was my new friend's first Air Force posting. They returned after he retired because his wife has family in the area.

Schools aren't bad here. Schools where he grew up weren't good then, not good now (Another reason to live here). Wanted to live near a military base to use his benefits.

Likes how military gets a break in town — 10 percent off here, 10 percent off there. It all helps.

Plans to work a few more years at the prison. Probably until his youngest, a boy in fourth grade, is through public schools. That was my take, anyway.

Said working at the prison is OK. Have to stay neutral. Give the inmates some dignity but remember "they are there for a reason."

I don't think I told him half that much about me.

I needed to squeeze in a two more errands before returning to work, so I was the first to get up to leave.

"Since we've been talking," I said, extending my hand across the counter, "my name is Greg."

He told me his name, returning the handshake. "You be careful out there."

I left thinking how much I had enjoyed lunch. Fish McBites were OK.

Just two guys talking, hitting on some common ground. We had a few laughs and agreed on some truths in life. Better than sitting isolated in our own booths, eating while messing with our phones.

Kinda throwback. Like sitting on a big porch and saying hey to the neighbors as evening falls.